The Good Humor Man

by Andrew Fox

  A black limousine turns off Canal Street, taking the corner much faster than it should. It skids to a halt in front of the church. The limo’s doors pop open. Three young black men, faces mostly hidden by wide-brimmed hats and dark glasses, swiftly approach me.

  ‘Are you with Oretha Denoux?” I ask, feeling both foolish and afraid.

  Two of them grab my arms. “Get in the car, Graceland,” the third says.

  The ride that follows isn’t the most pleasant I’ve ever taken. I spend it immobilized between two towers of muscle, blindfolded, my ears battered by a bizarre fusion of speed ska and Louis Armstrong.

  I’m led inside a building, walking blind. I’m still blindfolded when a woman introduces herself as Oretha Denoux. “You come to see me at a very inconvenient time, Dr. Shmalzberg. Carnival season has just begun. Tonight is our first parade.”

  Her voice is pleasant enough. Melodious, but with the submerged steeliness of someone who is used to the exercise of unquestioned authority. The bodyguards remove my blindfold. Somewhere outside, a brass band rehearses.

  “My men examined the contents of your wallet,” she continues. “Jerome tells me he found a Good Humor Man badge with your name engraved on it. Member since 2017. That is bad. Very bad. And very indiscreet. Can you give me one reason why I shouldn’t have my men cut out your liver and toss the rest of you in a bayou?”

  I should’ve been more prepared for something like this. But Swaggart didn’t tell me Denoux would be a gang leader of some kind. She’s sitting in an oversized chair, virtually a throne. She is… substantial. Not obese by any means, but a woman of presence. Behind her throne is a gigantic plume of peacock feathers, matching the crown of feathers and gemstones nestled in her dome of wiry black hair.

  “I’m waiting, Doctor. Patience is not foremost among my many virtues.”

  The henchmen holding my arms (in old detective novels they would’ve been called “torpedoes”) snicker. Swaggart stated that Ms. Denoux is a canny businesswoman. I’ll try to take advantage of that. “One good reason you shouldn’t toss me in the bayou?” I say, my voice stronger than I expected it would be. “I’ll give you several. One, I understand you appreciate a good profit; I intend to provide you with one. Two, although I still carry the badge, I’m no longer a Good Humor Man. I was officially expelled as of five or six days ago. You can check that out with the Rancho Bernardino government in Orange County, California, or directly with the town’s Good Humor squad. Three, if the Good Humor Men are your enemies, I’d make a very valuable ally. As a founding squad leader, I know their tactics and procedures as well as anyone. I know most of the state chapter heads personally. And every principle the movement stands for makes me want to puke up the same liver you so dramatically offered to remove.”

  She laughs at this, a full-bodied laugh; not mocking, but appreciative. “You speak very well for yourself. However, I still find the badge most disturbing.”

  “If I’d wanted to hide my past association with the Good Humor Men from you, why would I have carried the badge in my wallet? The only reason I’ve kept it at all is because of the doors it might open for me while I’m trying to reacquire my family heirloom. In most parts of the country, being a Good Humor Man earns me a lot of deference.”

  “Agreed.” She leans slightly forward on her throne. “But who is to say that you did not keep your badge in an easily findable place exactly so that you could appear disingenuous and nonthreatening?”

  “Call my references. I’ll give you the numbers and names. They’ll tell you how traitorous I am.”

  She laughs again, but this time a mocking tone is wrapped within her mirth. “Oh, I intend to call them.” She nods to the henchman on my right. “Jerome, be sure to take down the good doctor’s contacts.” He pulls out an electronic notepad and thrusts it into my hands. “But rest assured that any information I obtain from your acquaintances will be taken with a large amount of salt… say, the amount suspended in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  I place the notepad back in Jerome’s large paw. “Ms. Denoux, why not listen to my offer, weigh its profit potential, and then decide whether the profit outweighs any possible risk I might pose?” Her face remains shadowed, hard to read. “Honestly, if the Good Humor Men wanted to send someone to spy on you, why would they send me? I don’t exactly blend in.” I’m the only Caucasian, as well as the only person over forty, in the room.

  She laces her fingers and leans her chin on them. “The time I can spare for this interview grows short. I agree that there is little possible harm in listening to your offer. But before we talk business, you need to explain to my full satisfaction one other matter. When you first contacted my offices, you mentioned an artifact that exceedingly few persons are aware exists. Who pointed you in my direction?”

  There’s no sense in trying to lie. Even if I could come up with a lie I thought was plausible, she’d see through it in an instant. “Daniel Swaggart of the Graceland Foundation.”

  Jerome’s grunt is almost sympathetic. His boss looks anything but pleased. “Ahh, Dr. Shmalzberg,” she says, her mouth betraying a genuine sadness. “And here I was almost beginning to like you. I am surprised. I truly believed Mr. Swaggart would never be foolhardy enough to risk upturning our proverbial apple cart. But now I have no choice but to do serious damage to his beloved Foundation. Not to mention its elderly messenger boy.”

  “Swaggart’s not coming after you,” I say, quickly. “Even more than you, he wants to keep things quiet. Fm an Elvis collector, not a cop or an investigator of some kind. Swaggart only agreed to tell me where you are because Fm harmless, and because he knew Fd offer you a good price for the Elvis. And because I offered him a bribe he couldn’t pass up.”

  “And that was?”

  “I’m a plastic surgeon. I gave him a nose job. Changed his nose from a Jerry Lee Lewis beak to something more closely approximating the Presley proboscis.”

  Her icy countenance thaws into something close to a grin. “Really? Swaggart had you do that? For that he gave you my name and risked upsetting our truce?” She throws her head back and laughs. When she looks at me again, her eyes sparkle. “I believe you, Doctor. I finally believe you. I know that walking pustule too well to not believe that is exactly how he would behave. The worm! The toady! He would give them his balls in a box if they’d make him chairman!” She gestures dismissively to her men. “Leave us. Dr. Shmalzberg and I will be discussing business in the parlor.”

  The parlor is decorated with expressionistic paintings of what look to be Mardi Gras parades. Ms. Denoux invites me to sit on a plush leather sofa, then offers me coffee. She surprises me by serving it herself, even steaming the milk for me. The coffee is richer than any I’ve tasted in years. A prime culprit could be the foamed milk, which tastes suspiciously (and deliciously) natural and creamy.

  She invites me to tell my story. I repeat all that I had told Swaggart, adding in the events that led to my resignation/expulsion from the Good Humor Men. I finish my account by offering an opening bid on the Elvis: seventy-five thousand dollars.

  She presents neither a counteroffer nor even a reaction to let me know she has heard my proposal. Instead, she sips slowly from her cup and eyes me as she might an interesting insect specimen. “Where is home to you, Doctor? Do you miss it very much?”

  Not the question I was expecting. “Home?” The realization hits me like a slab of meat dropped from a third-story window. “Right now, I’d have to say I don’t have one.”

  “Then I am most sorry for you. Home has always meant everything to me. Family. Neighborhood. I was born in New Orleans, and apart from the few years I worked for the Graceland Corporation, I have always lived here. Are you aware of what happened to New Orleans during the years of GD2?”

  I shake my head.

  “There is an old saying: ‘When the rest of the nation sneezes, New Orleans catches pneumonia.’ For many years the city’s entire economy rested on tourism and international trade. So what do you th
ink happened here when the international trading system collapsed and the average household income plunged by over sixty percent?”

  “I’d say the rest of the country caught pneumonia, and New Orleans went into cardiac arrest.”

  “Precisely. Tourism evaporated. The French Quarter became another of our above-ground cemeteries, quiet and empty. Even our petrochemical plants, affected by the decline of the rest of the nation’s economy, were shuttered. The only people who remained were those without the resources to leave. Or those who, like my family, refused to leave.

  “This was in addition to the devastation brought by two major hurricanes, Katrina and Edwin. More than two thousand people drowned. Tens of thousands more were left homeless. After Edwin, there was no money to rebuild. The federal government cut us loose. That was when I made my decision to go to Memphis, to join the Graceland Corporation.”

  “Why Graceland?”

  Her face takes on a self-satisfied glow. “A family connection. My grandmother had been one of Elvis’s retinue of servants at the mansion. The heads of the Graceland Foundation always had a soft spot for anyone who’d had personal relations with their King. I did not want to leave New Orleans. But I saw the potential to return someday and uplift my home with the skills I would acquire.”

  Interesting as all this is, I’m concerned that I didn’t get even a glimmer of a response to my offer. “I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Denoux, but I thought we were talking about the Elvis.”

  She pats my hand condescendingly. “Oh, but we are, Doctor. You see, I want to make you understand that Elvis Presley means very, very little to me. Fats Domino means more to me than Elvis Presley. Louis Armstrong, far more. I am not a cultist or a collector of ‘holy’ artifacts. I am a pragmatist; Elvis was never more to me than a means to my end.”

  The meaning behind her words sinks in. The slippery fat is sliding from my grasp again. “So what you’re telling me is, you sold it.”

  Her dark brow furrows with concern. “I’m sorry to cause you such disappointment. But of course I sold it. I sold it within weeks of obtaining it, after putting forth word of its availability to trustworthy elements within the collectors’ community. The proceeds provided the initial capital I used to build the organization I now head.”

  I sigh. “And who did you sell it to? Space aliens who wanted to clone Elvis and populate an entertainment satellite with hundreds of copies of him? My next stop is a hundred billion light years from here?”

  She laughs. “Oh, I doubt you’ll have to travel quite that far. Do not look so depressed; it makes me sad. There is no reason why we cannot still conduct business.”

  “Only now we’re negotiating for information, rather than fat?”

  She hands me a second cup of coffee. “Information is what this world is built upon. That, as well as family and fine food. But before you offer me a revised sum, let me make you a proposal. Cash money is a fine thing, but as you can see, it is not something of which I am bereft.”

  She places her soft hand on my thigh. “However, there may be something you can offer which would be of far greater benefit. Before you can do so, you’ll need to take a little ride with me. You should find it quite illuminating.”

  I’m still not completely trusted. As soon as we leave the parlor, the two torpedoes slip the blindfold on me again. Ms. Denoux remains close at hand.

  “I apologize for the return of the blindfold, Doctor. But I’m sure, were you in my position, it is a precaution you’d take, as well.”

  I hear car doors being opened. “Jerome, please make sure Dr. Shmalzberg doesn’t hit his head.” Then I smell tanned leather, cannabis, and foreign tobacco. The engine rumbles to life, almost certainly an old-style gasoline or diesel internal combustion model.

  “We’re heading for our den,” Ms. Denoux tells me. “How familiar are you with the customs of New Orleans Carnival krewes?”

  “Uh, not familiar at all.”

  “In the old days, a krewe was basically a social aid and pleasure club. Each krewe held several balls and social events during Carnival, and most also sponsored a public parade. Carnival was always central to the city’s idea of itself. It was one of the things that made enduring the humidity and poverty and hurricanes worthwhile.”

  We round a corner faster than I would’ve thought possible. I’m thrust against Ms. Denoux. She rights me without any fuss and continues. “With the abandonment of Carnival during GD2, a part of this city died. A vital part; the part that gave those who stayed here the will to resist adversity, to stay the course —”

  “To ride out the storm?”

  “Yes. My overriding goal, even before I left New Orleans for Memphis, was to somehow resurrect Carnival. Ahh — our den is just ahead.”

  As soon as the car door is opened and I’m guided outside, I suck in a lungful of pungent nostalgia. It’s like being on the old Santa Monica Freeway at rush hour — diesel fumes choke me, make my eyes water even behind their partially protective blindfold. One after another, large displacement engines cough and rumble into wakefulness.

  “This is one of several warehouse complexes where we create and store our fleets of parade floats,” Ms. Denoux says. I can barely hear her. Hands push and pull me up a short set of steps, then across a metal deck that vibrates like the cockpit of an ancient biplane. I’m pushed against what feels like a padded pole. Something is wrapped around my legs and midsection. Hands grasp my wrists, pull my arms behind me. I feel cold steel closing around my wrists, squashing my watch into my tendons.

  “Why am I being handcuffed?”

  Ms. Denoux’s voice comes to my rescue. “There’s no need to fear. You’ve been cuffed for your own safety. The streets are badly cratered, and there’s a good chance our driver will need to employ violent evasive maneuvers. Far better you should endure some discomfort than be thrown beneath the wheels of this float. I am right here next to you, secured to a harness post only five feet away.”

  The deck beneath my feet begins vibrating at a higher frequency. The whole structure shudders and moans as we begin rolling forward. The diesel stench recedes from my lungs. I smell other odors in the breeze: ripening garbage, raw sewage, and, incongruously, the aroma of freshly baked cakes.

  I hear voices, excited cheers, chants, and loud music. As if in response, loudspeakers somewhere behind me thunder into life. The back of my body is pummeled by mighty vibrations, the heavy syncopation of a brass street-jazz band.

  “There is music all over the city tonight,” Ms. Denoux says, her voice barely reaching me through the thick blanket of sound. “Word has spread. The street knows that tonight is the first parade. The music is both celebration and camouflage.”

  “Camouflage?” I yell back at her. “How so?”

  “If there is music everywhere, your friends cannot use remote sound triangulation equipment to pinpoint the route of our parade. They are forced to create roadblocks in many different neighborhoods, man checkpoints all over the city. The more thinly we can force them to spread themselves, the less chance there is of a confrontation.”

  “But why would they be trying to stop you? What do the Good Humor Men have against a parade?”

  “That will quickly become apparent.”

  We aren’t moving very fast. As my ears adjust to the music, I can hear other sounds, packages being torn open on the float, shouted exclamations from float riders, voices below us calling out —

  “Turtles!”

  “Kingkake!”

  “Creoles! Here! Over here! Creoles!”

  “Throwmesomethin, mister!”

  “Kingkake! Kingkake!”

  “ThrowMEsomethin!”

  Something is shoved into my mouth. Something soft and spongy. I gag violently, but then the flavor hits my taste buds. It’s sweet. Delicious. My tongue detects different layers — crunchy glaze, chocolate, angel food cake, caramel swirled with raspberry sauce. This pastry is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in a quarter-century.

 
I open my mouth wide, hoping my benefactor will insert another one. My gesture is greeted with friendly laughter and pats on my shoulders.

  My blindfold is removed.

  The first thing I see is fire. Dancing fire, jets of flame gyrating ten feet above the street, swooping and spinning. The flames are held by human dancers. They clutch tall metal poles which terminate in what look like huge candelabras. The flambeaux are the only illumination on this street. No street lamps; or, if there are, all their bulbs are burnt out or broken. Glancing around, I see that my float and the floats ahead of and behind us carry their own lights, hundreds of multicolored lights draped in strings. The floats look like toppled-over Christmas trees.

  I glance at Ms. Denoux. She looks like a warrior princess from a Wild West Show, her feathered bonnet and soaring peacock cape making it hard for me to tell where her costume ends and the float begins. “What was that your friends stuffed in my mouth?” I yell.

  She’s busy waving at the crowds and tossing gold coins from a box at her feet. “That was a turtle. One of my staff’s special concoctions, a re-creation of an old delicacy. Did you like it?”

  “Yes!” I feel like a kid on a carnival midway. I want to drive the float, gun its engine to full throttle. The crowd surges around us, rapt faces lit by swaying firelight, arms held above their heads, open palms grasping, beseeching. “I loved it, I want another one!”

  She laughs, and I hear the sound of a delighted little girl in it. She kneels and reaches behind her into another box, then carefully steps across the shuddering deck, holding onto a series of grab-handles.